


In Defiance of Tradition

by FeralPen



Series: Fodlan Foursomes (Sedoretu-verse) [1]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Canonical Child Abuse, Developing Relationship, F/F, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, M/M, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Sedoretu
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-02
Updated: 2020-07-02
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:21:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25025335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FeralPen/pseuds/FeralPen
Summary: Sedoretu marriage is out of fashion in the Holy Kingdom Faerghus. Sylvain knows it's not something he's allowed to want. He knows it's not something he'll get. Of all the far-fetched things he could dream of, he just wants to be happy.
Relationships: Felix Hugo Fraldarius & Ingrid Brandl Galatea, Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Mercedes von Martritz, Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Sylvain Jose Gautier, Ingrid Brandl Galatea/Mercedes von Martritz, Ingrid Brandl Galatea/Sylvain Jose Gautier, Sylvain Jose Gautier & Mercedes von Martritz
Series: Fodlan Foursomes (Sedoretu-verse) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1833721
Comments: 6
Kudos: 45





	In Defiance of Tradition

**Author's Note:**

> I emerge from my slumber once again. I love Sedoretu as a concept, and this fandom desperately deserves some fics that use it. If you're not familiar with the concept of Sedoretu marriage, I would suggest googling it. They'll explain it better than I can. Longest story short, it's a four-part marriage with two heterosexual couples and two homosexual couples and two platonic male-female relationships. People are divided into Morning or Evening moiety. You are the moiety of your mother.
> 
> Please enjoy.

Sylvain is eight years old, and he hates the Goddess.

He decides this at some point in his young life, but he finally says it when he's with Felix. Of course it's when he's with Felix, he thinks later. Miklan was too cruel for any honesty, for honesty just led to tattling and pain. Glenn was too busy with his swords for philosophy, and Ingrid was so enamored of knighthood and glory that of course she wouldn't listen to his ideas. He brings it up with Felix one bright summer day.

"It's not fair," he says with all the gravitas an eight-year-old can muster, "I hate the stupid Goddess."

They're in the little copse of trees with a ramshackle lean-to built into it that they had affectionately dubbed "The Fort." It's messy and a little ugly - definitely an inappropriate playing space for high nobility. The only reason it exists is because Glenn and Dimitri had decided to build it the previous summer, and Felix's father had laughed at them and said that it was good for children to build things themselves. Now it is a favorite hideaway from all of the adults and responsibilities of nobility.

There's a basket between them, filled with an assortment of sweet rolls and spicy meat-and-cheese rolls, along with a skin of watery beer. Felix has a spicy roll stuffed in his face, and he chews furiously with his wide eyes fixed on Sylvain. He swallows before he's quite done chewing, and Sylvain wordlessly passes him the beer to force it down with. Finally, the younger boy emerges from the skin with a gasp.

"You're not supposed to say that," he says a little breathlessly, "You'll get in trouble."

"No I won't," he says, "I'm the Margrave's son - they're not going to put me in prison or anything."

"But Sylvain, you can't." Little Felix looks close to tears now. "You can't say bad stuff about the Goddess because you'll get in trouble, and your dad is really scary. He's gonna get mad."

The mention of his father does quell his feelings of rebelliousness just a bit, but he can't let Felix know that. He's gotta be the strong one. He makes an even more mulish expression.

"No, I'm right. The big, stinking Goddess is stupid. Look at all the dumb stuff She did: Crests? Moiety? All anybody cares about is getting married. All they wanna talk about is whether you're a Morning or an Evening and who you can make Crest babies with. It's so stupid!"

Felix is still blinking at him owlishly. He feels a surge of petty spite.

"Doesn't your dad talk about it? How you've gotta find some Evening girl to have Crest babies with? Or does your dad not care, since you and Glenn both have a Crest?"

He hates how cruel he sounds. He wishes that Miklan had a Crest so he'd stop pushing him down staircases and kicking his favorite hounds and hitting his shaggy Srengi pony while he rides it to make it buck him off. He wishes his brother was actually Glenn, or better yet, that he could trade out Miklan and have a sweet baby brother like Felix or Dimitri. He wouldn't beat them up or stuff them in a closet for hours. He'd never. He'd teach them board games and be the best brother ever, and he'd never ever hit them.

Felix's lip trembles for just a second before a scowl clouds his features. He stands up to put his hands on his hips and glare down at Sylvain.

"No! Your dad is the stupid one! My dad says the Goddess made Crests to protect people, and She made moiety so we could be happy. Not to make stupid Crest babies."

Sylvain can't help but laugh at Felix's screwed up face. He tugs on his hand until the boy sits down again.

"Faerghus nobility doesn't make Sedoretu," he says to Felix, but kindly, "We've gotta be strong, so we need Crests. My dad says we can't make Sedoretu because only commoners can afford to marry for love."

"That's stupid," Felix says, "My dad says everyone should make Sedoretu to be happy."

"That's why it's not fair - nobility don't get to be happy."

"No!" Felix grabs his hand. Their fingers are grubby from the food and the dirt. He wiggles his pudgy fingers between Sylvain's. At six years old, he already has calluses from holding a sword. It makes something in Sylvain's chest hurt, but he doesn't know why.

"I'm going to marry you," Felix declares.

The world stops for a minute. Felix's fierce expression doesn't waver. Sylvain can't decide if the bubbling in his chest is laughter or tears.

"You can't," he says.

"Why not? I'm a Morning, you're an Evening."

"Well, yeah, but two boys can't make babies," he points out. "My father wouldn't let us."

Felix ponders for a moment. He sticks his lip out when he thinks. It's cute. He never takes his fingers out of Sylvain's grip.

"So we get a Morning girl," he finally says. He looks incredibly pleased with himself. "Then we can get married, and you can have your dumb Crest babies, and she can be my second-best friend."

"Who's your first-best friend?" It's a crazy idea. No one would allow it. Still, he plays along. 

"You, of course. Stupid." He squeezes their hands, and lets go. Matter apparently settled, he grabs another meat roll and begins munching.

Sylvain has something in his throat. He swallows it and sniffles until his nose stops feeling drippy. He carelessly wipes it on his sleeve. If his father were here, he'd get cuffed for being messy. His father isn't here.

"We need to find an Evening girl, too," he says. They can't. There's no way they can. But he keeps talking anyway. "Then you'll have a wife, too, and I'll have a second-best friend."

"Hm, okay," Felix says. When he smiles, there's cheese in his teeth. "It's a Sedoretu then."

The sun shines in a Fraldarius summer. Sylvain takes another sweet roll.

\---

Sylvain is thirteen, and he feels sick.

This year, his summer is spent at home. The harsh snows of the Sreng pass are melted in the summer, and that's when the barbarians invade. He hears that the Almyrans invade at a whim on the eastern side of Fodlan, but in Gautier territory, summer is invasion season. He watches his father ride out with the quivering Lance of Ruin in hand. Miklan watches too, from the shadows and seething.

Sylvain isn't sure where he is now. It's night, and he's run so fast and heedlessly that he can't remember what turns he took or how he got here. His nightshirt is stuck to his chest with sweat. He leans against a wall and slowly sinks down until his knees touch his chest. He hugs them, and finally allows himself to sob.

There's a minor lord from Arianrhod visiting the Gautier Margravite this summer. This isn't unusual. Noblemen travel to visit other nobility often to trade favors and build alliances. This lord brings his daughter with him, which also isn't unusual. She's fifteen - nearly old enough to marry. She's mousy and boring and a Morning moiety. Sylvain is expected to entertain her, but he's thirteen. All he wants to do is read his books and skip out on lance training, not take tea in the sitting room and discuss the opera. His mother glares at him and pinches his arm, and he obeys.

He sobs again. He woke up earlier when someone opened his bedroom door. It was too dark to see, and he was half-asleep. He had called out, but the shadowy shape got closer until in the dim light he recognized the noble girl. She was only in her shift, and she wouldn't answer any of his questions. She'd pressed her hand on his chest to push him back on the bed, and her warm mouth had covered his own so he couldn't shout. He jerked away when he felt her other hand groping under his nightshirt to paw clumsily at his groin. He finally got his hands up onto her shoulders and pushed with all of his strength, throwing his legs up as well to send her flying away from the bed. He scrambled to his feet, ignoring her crying, and he ran.

He finally lifts his head and wipes the tears from his eyes. He has to tell someone. He's not sure what happened or why, but it feels significant and dangerous. His father isn't here, and his governess had been taken away when he turned eleven. He has no choice. He goes to his lady mother.

His mother is a cold woman. She doesn't appreciate being awoken in the night, but she sits up in her bed and listens to him babble out his story only half-coherently. Her eyes become hard and flinty. She shushes him, and she calls for her servants.

The nobleman and his daughter are thrown out that night. Sylvain watches, still in his nightclothes as his mother berates them in her cold, commanding voice about being classless and treacherous liars and thieves. The girl is hastily dressed in traveling clothes. Her face is red and puffy with tears. Her father is pale and sniveling. Sylvain never sees them again.

When their entourage disappears from the keep's grounds, his mother turns to him. Nothing about her is soft, and he flinches. She purses her lips.

"You know what that girl wanted, don't you?"

He hesitates. He has a vague idea that it has something to do with his family's wealth and his Crest, but he's not sure what that has to do with what the girl did. He's exhausted and his brain feels muddled. He shakes his head.

"She wanted to lie with you and become pregnant," his mother says bluntly, "I'm sure her father came up with the scheme, damned fool that he is. If the baby was born with the Gautier Crest, he'd expect us to support him and their little bastard. You did well to reject her."

He doesn't feel well. He feels sick and small like his skin is poorly stretched over his flesh. He wants to forget this ever happened. He wants someone to hold him. He thinks about asking his mother for a hug, but he doesn't. He learned from infancy not to expect affection from the Margravine.

"You're getting old enough now," she continues, "In the morning, I'll have you see the doctor. He'll tell you how to prevent any embarrassments from happening if you decide to take any of these girls up on their insipid little schemes. Your blood is precious, Sylvain, and so is your seed. Protect the Gautier name."

He's sent to bed then. He lies awake and quivers until he gets up and pushes a chair in front of the door. He holds a pillow in his arms and pretends he's a child again, thoughtlessly holding onto Felix or Dima or Glenn in the night. He wants someone to help him, but he is alone.

\---

Sylvain is fifteen, and he is numb.

King Lambert is dead. So is his Queen, Patricia. So many other people, but all he can think about is Glenn. 

He's back at Fhirdiad with his mother. His father is at the border of Sreng - with Lambert gone and the country in chaos, it's the perfect time to invade. His mother is there to represent their house, and Sylvain is there because Felix is.

He hasn't seen Felix still. He saw Rodrique in passing, but it was just a glimpse. He was all hand gestures and gritted teeth, his cloak swirled around his ankles. War left no time for grief.

An uprising in Duscur doesn't make sense. No one listens to him. No one questions it. No one tells him where Dimitri is. He hears that Ingrid is still in Galatea. He tries to find Felix, but he still doesn't see him until the funeral. It's a huge and bloated affair. He can see Felix standing beside his father. He may as well be a statue. He doesn't cry. He just stares ahead. The bags under his eyes are deeper and darker than he's ever seen them. He meets Sylvain's eyes just once. He looks away. Dimitri is unreadable at the head of the procession. Rufus looks visibly uncomfortable. It's a farce.

He corners Felix after the funeral. His eyes are still bone dry. He won't look at Sylvain's face.

"Sylvain," he says shortly.

"Felix." He reaches his hand out for him, but he shrugs away. His fingers scrape along his jacket sleeve. "Felix," he says again.

"If you tell me you're sorry about Glenn, I'll kill you," he rasps.

He is sorry about Glenn. Glenn was the best of them. A natural swordsman, blunt and gruff and hilarious. He was the only one of them that could get even Miklan to smile. Now he was gone, and they didn't even have a whole enough body to view. He was gone, and the duties of heir of Fraldarius fall on Felix.

"I just wanted to see if you're okay."

"I'm just great," he spits out. His arms shake by his sides. Sylvain wishes he would just burst into tears like he did when he was a child. He wants to pull him into his arms and ruffle his hair and everything would be fine, just like it used to be. "I'm jumping for joy because my brother died _honorably like a true knight._ "

Sylvain gives into the urge and pulls Felix closer. He's shaking. They're both shaking. He wants to cry, but Felix's dry eyes stop him. He buries his nose in his hair.

"Glenn deserved better," he says, "I miss him."

Felix trembles and pushes him away. He still doesn't cry.

"My father is making me Dimitri's squire," he says, "I'm staying at the capital with him."

"So I won't see you?"

"Not until officer's academy."

He takes his hand and threads their fingers together like they did when they were children. Both of their hands are rough. Felix's fingers are slender like a girl's.

"Just promise me one thing, Sylvain. Promise you won't die."

"Me? You're the one who's becoming a squire."

His glare is eerily like Glenn's. "Just promise me. Promise you won't let your father get you killed. Like my father got Glenn killed."

"I'm not going to die, Felix. Look, I'll do you one better. I promise not to die if you promise not to, either. We'll die together or not at all."

Felix finally meets his eyes. He nods, and there's the tiniest hint of a smirk in the corner of his mouth.

"I swear it. No dying unless it's together."

He lets Sylvain hug him one more time, and then he's gone. He doesn't see him again for four years.

\---

Sylvain is nineteen, and he's frustrated.

He hasn't seen his friends in person in years. They write letters, but it's not the same. He rides out with his father to patrol the border. He works with training lances until his hands blister. He takes strangers to bed, slums in taverns with commoners, and builds a terrible reputation. He says it's for fun, but some days it feels like a bad habit he can't break.

The men are easier in a way, because while they might also want to marry him for his money, he can't give them Crest babies. Still, there's something off about them. Like they're scratching an itch and not exactly what he needs. He avoids brunettes. The women throw themselves at him, transparently seeking his wealth and his Crest. He treats them poorly. Every one of them looks like that first girl.

The four childhood friends reunite in the Blue Lion house, and it's awful.

Dimitri is like a stranger. He's still Dima in there somewhere, but he wears his princehood like a poorly-fitting suit. He goes almost nowhere without his giant Duscur bodyguard. It's so unlike their childhood that it makes his head hurt. He covers it with jokes, but he's wary of the new Dima.

He hasn't seen Ingrid in years. She's grown lovely. It's a terrible thought. He shouldn't look at her like one of his conquests, but he can't help himself. Her golden plait is soft and shiny, and on the good food and exercise at the Monastery, her figure fills out. He thinks about what his mother said. 

"The Galatea girl may have a Crest, but her blood is weak. How many generations since they produced a Crest? And with how poor their territory is, they'd be nothing but a money sink. No, we may as well wed you to a girl who will provide gold if we can't find one with strong blood."

He shakes off his mother's voice in his head. He watches her gossip with Mercedes and Annette like a normal girl, not a future broodmare destined to be sold off to the highest bidder. She's fierce and lovely and she deserves better. He strikes his training dummy with more force than necessary.

"Finally taking training seriously?"

Felix is another snag. He's overjoyed to see him again after nothing but letters for the past four years. He's so much like Glenn now that it's painful. Gone is the chubby little boy who wore his heart on his sleeve. This Felix is still small, but as wicked sharp and biting as a dagger. His dedication to training is more like obsession. His eyes dance with excitement only with a sword in hand.

"If you're in such a mood, come spar," Felix demands.

He can feel the girls' eyes on him, so he shoots them a sleazy smile and a wink. He hears Mercedes titter, but as always with Mercedes, it sounds like she's laughing with his joke more than falling for his flirts. Not that he's interested. He may be a pervert and a cad, but he's never been interested in other Evening people. Ingrid says something cutting, and the girls laugh again.

"Lances, swords, or brawling?" He swaggers into the practice ring as if the answer doesn't matter at all. In truth, he isn't good at much more than swinging a lance and riding a horse. Felix's eyes light up at the question.

"Brawling," he says.

"And here I was sure you would pick swords," he complains.

They retreat to the weapons rack. Felix helps him wrap his knuckles and wrists, and he returns the favor. He can see Ashe and the little spectacled boy from Golden Deer giving them a curious look from the archery targets. He rolls his shoulders.

"We fight until one of us yields," Felix says.

"Just don't ruin my pretty face, alright?"

A sour look flashes across Felix's face. "Begin!"

They circle each other. Sylvain sets his arms defensively and throws a punch just to see what he does. Felix hardly has to move to dodge it. He darts in and hammers into Sylvain with some lightning-fast punches. They're not hard enough to hurt. He sidesteps and aims a kick for his knee. Felix's footwork is too fast. He pins Sylvain on the defensive.

"Are you even trying?"

"Maybe I don't want to mess up _your_ pretty face, either."

His scowl deepens. "Stop jesting and fight!"

They don't have time to argue, because Sylvain turns the tables and hits Felix in the kidney with his closed fist. Felix grunts, but he looks happier with a fight to focus on. They go blow for blow for a few minutes before Felix spins and grabs him. There's a lurching feeling of losing the ground with his feet, and he sees a dizzying glimpse of the sky before he crashes back onto the dirt on his back. Felix straddles his hips and grabs the front of his shirt.

They're both breathing heavily. Felix looks glorious above him, sweaty, his hair a mess and his chest heaving. Sylvain can feel himself stirring to life with arousal, and his heart skips. Not right now. Not with Felix. He reaches up weakly to grab Felix's wrist. His pupils are huge, and he licks his lips before he speaks in his gruff voice -

"Do you yield?"

Does he? Sylvain's forgotten how to think. All he can think about is those legs wrapping around his waist, about how his skin would taste if he licked his neck. What does Felix look like with his hair loose? He licks his lips.

"Okay, that's enough."

Ingrid is there, pulling on Felix's shoulder until he joins her on his feet. Her face is pink. He hopes neither of them can see the tent in his trousers.

"I think Sylvain yields. Both of you need to go bathe. You reek." She's not looking at either of them. She pretends to be very interested in the dirt. "Seriously, go wash up."

"Whatever," Felix mutters. He won't look at either of them, but his cheeks look pink, too. "Come on."

"Yeah, just a minute." Sylvain pulls himself up on Ingrid's offered hand and tries to dust himself off. Felix is already walking away. Good. Maybe he'll have time to will away his embarrassing little problem before he joins him in the bathhouse.

\---

Sylvain is twenty, and his brother is dead.

They're back at the monastery, and he isn't ready to talk to the Archbishop. The professor tells them to go get cleaned up and see to their injuries. He does neither.

He goes to the chapel. His arm hurts. His brother - the black beast that had been Miklan - bit down onto it, but Mercedes's healing spell had closed the skin. It's just bruises now. It aches.

The acolytes and clerics give him odd looks. He's still wearing his bloodstained cavalier armor. He stands in the corner of the church. He feels empty. He still hates the Goddess. Moreso now. His brother is dead because he wasn't born with a Crest, and because the Margrave Gautier values Crests over human lives. He hopes his brother found at least some happiness before they killed him. His brother hated him, but he doesn't really blame him.

"Are you still in pain?"

He didn't notice Mercedes approaching. Her hair is damp. She reaches for his arm.

"You're holding it like it hurts," she says.

"I'm fine." He lets her take his arm anyway. Healing light eases the pain. He closes his eyes. "You didn't have to do that."

"I wanted to." Mercedes doesn't move. Doesn't say anything. She's just there, but he doesn't mind. He wonders if she prays.

"Miklan didn't have to die," he blurts out.

Mercedes nods silently. She's looking at the statue of the Goddess. Her face is sad.

"My father says we need the power of the Crests to fight Sreng. I don't get it. The Lance of Ruin is powerful, but it's not the only thing that decides battles. And even if it was, Miklan still could have been the heir. I can wield the Lance. He could have been Margrave and I could have just been a general or something."

"We'll never know," Mercedes says, "You shouldn't torture yourself. It's not your fault. Your parents made their choices. You were just a child." She sounds like she's talking to herself as well.

"So was he." The words were ash. His brother hated him, but was it destiny? Would they have been brothers like Felix and Glenn had been if it weren't for Crests?

"You need to clean up and get some rest. Look, your friends are here."

He looks up, and there's Ingrid and Felix. They're both still in their bloody armor. Ingrid rushes ahead.

"There you are! Mercie, you found him! We looked everywhere for you."

She doesn't touch him, but she touches Mercedes. Mercedes touches her hand, and they linger there just a beat longer than proper. He wonders. Felix touches his arm, jolting him out of staring at the two women.

"You need a bath," he says, "Join me."

"Let me help," Ingrid says. She pulls away from Mercedes and grabs Sylvain's other arm.

Ingrid comes into the men's side of the bathhouse, which is forbidden. She and Felix work together to unbuckle the straps of his armor. He comes alive again to help them with theirs. Ingrid slips out to the women's side before the bathhouse master can yell at her. Felix takes his hand again.

"Come on."

It feels right to let Felix manhandle him. He's in too much shock to decide anything, even how much soap to put on the rag. Felix scrubs his skin for him. He remembers bathing with him when they were very young. This is different. His hands ghost over his bruises, so feather-light that they don't even hurt. When Sylvain remembers to look, he sees similar bruises standing out on Felix's skin. His fingers scrub more soap into his sweaty hair and he zones out for a bit. A tap on his shoulder brings him back.

"I need to wash," Felix says gruffly, handing him the cloth. "Wash your groin. And rinse!"

He does as he's told. Felix is much more brutal and efficient with his own skin. It turns pink and red under his scrubbing. They rinse at the same time. Felix grabs his hand again to lead him to the big soaking pools. They step in again and he sits beside him in the water.

Felix doesn't say anything, either. He wonders if this terrible numbness is how Felix had felt when they heard Glenn died. It was probably worse for him. He'd actually liked Glenn. Sylvain had stabbed his lance into his own brother, wounding him so that the Professor could land the killing blow. He'd killed his own brother.

"Stop thinking so loud," Felix says.

He blinks back into his skin. Felix is lounging on the edge of the hot pool. The skin on his chest is mottled red from the heat, but he looks relaxed. He can feel his own body. His muscles don't ache with overuse now. The hot water is working.

"I can't believe he's dead," he says.

Felix closes his eyes. It's rare for the bathhouse to be so empty, but it's late. Sylvain closes his eyes, too, and sees black beasts. He opens them again and grasps Felix's fingers. He is rewarded with a firm squeeze of his own fingers.

"It'll all hit you at once," Felix says, "You're just in shock, still. Once you think about it for a while, you'll believe it's real."

He opens his eyes and stares into space. He trails his free hand in the water. 

"I didn't believe Glenn was really dead until I saw his broken armor."

Sylvain had seen it, too. Someone had scrubbed the bloodstains out, but the punctured and twisted metal told its own story.

"Come on. Your skin's getting wrinkly."

He lets Felix towel him off and slip him into loungewear. They find Dimitri collecting their armor from the front room. Felix tenses up the way he always does these days.

"Oh, Sylvain. Felix. I came to get this. I was going to have them cleaned." He looks so earnest and unsettling. He looks at Sylvain with naked sympathy. "I had Dedue take some food to your room, Sylvain. There should be enough for both of you."

"Thanks," he manages. Felix snorts and drags him along. They leave Dimitri to his self-punitive task. Dedue says nothing when they pass him in the dormitory courtyard. He can feel his eyes on him. They make it to his room without running into anyone else.

There's a basket of simple sandwiches and fruit on his desk, and a flagon of water with two cups. He takes a sandwich without thinking and shoves half of it into his mouth. He didn't realize how hungry he was until he saw the food. Felix is of a similar mind, and in short order, the basket and flagon are empty. He brushes crumbs off of his bedspread.

"It's late," Felix says, "I should go."

He reaches out before he can think and grabs his hand. He doesn't resist, just turns to meet his eyes.

"Don't go," he says pathetically, "Please. We can just sleep here. Like when we were kids."

Felix stares at him for a long second. He nods. He looks so small in the loungewear with his pale legs sticking out. There's hardly any hair on them. Sylvain himself is just getting hairier as he ages. By the time he's the Margrave, he'll probably have as big a beard as a Sreng warlord.

He turns the covers back, and Felix blows out the candle. They climb in. He hasn't had someone in his bed without the promise of sex since he was twelve. It's… nice. Felix punches his pillow with a small grumble, and they lie there stiffly until Sylvain finally gives in to the urge to pull him in closer to cuddle. Felix tenses up.

"What are you doing?"

"Snuggling," he answers.

Felix huffs. He's warm, and he smells like soap. "Is it making you feel better?"

"Much."

"Then I'll allow it."

He drags him in so that Felix's back is against his chest, and there's a mess of inky dark hair in his nose. He lets himself relax a little and tries not to think about anything except the man in his arms.

\---

Sylvain is twenty, and the world is ending.

Garreg Mach is ablaze. He can still hear knights screaming and the distant clang of weapons. The Professor is gone, disappeared after telling their students to retreat. They march off the battlefield and away, along with the other students and caravans-worth of frightened clerics and servants. None of them want to be captured by the Empire.

Felix and Dedue flank Dimitri, blades drawn. Sylvain follows Felix, because that's what he does. Ingrid's pegasus scouts ahead.

He can't think about the monastery and the knights and all of the townspeople. He can only dismount his tired horse and trudge on. There's nowhere to go but north and west until they're safely in Kingdom territory. Then they can make sense of it all. The Lance of Ruin throbs in his hand.

Dimitri hasn't spoken since they quit the field of battle. None of them really have. He's not sure what he would even say.

They finally stop marching when the sun has set completely. It's too dark now to see the ground in front of them. They break off into small groups of makeshift camps. He desperately wants to rest. His arms and legs are throbbing agony on top of blistered feet from marching. Someone is organizing the food they brought. His stomach groans.

He strips his horse's tack first. The poor girl didn't choose this brutal pace. He finds Ashe helping set up a makeshift line of pickets. The warhorses are the worst off, lathered in sweat and exhausted. He helps lead them to the nearby creek for water. Someone's found some brushes and currycombs. Mechanically, he brushes his horse down and gets her tied to a nice patch of grass. Then he moves on to the next and the next. It's work that he can lose himself in, even as his arms go numb. He doesn't know how long he's there, helping care for the horses. Long enough that he doesn't even notice Ingrid approach until she takes the brush from his hand.

"Sylvain," she says. She looks as pale and exhausted as everyone else, but she's gentle as she takes his hand. "You've done enough. Come eat and rest."

He doesn't protest. She takes him to a fire in the center of their camp. The faces of the Blue Lions house glow in the firelight. Mercedes and Annette are leaning against each other, fast asleep. There are deep bags under Mercedes's eyes. She used too much Faith. Dimitri is still as hard and silent as a stone, staring into the fire. Dedue is noticeably absent. Ashe is dishing some kind of thin soup into a wooden bowl. He gives it to Sylvain and says nothing, though he does muster a weak smile. He can't reciprocate, but he nods when he takes the food. He plants himself beside Felix, and Ingrid joins him on the other side. Felix has his sword and a whetstone in hand. He looks like he's about to nod off over his task.

"Where's Dedue?" Sylvain's voice is pitched to barely audible over the fire's crackling.

"He's organizing the first watch," Felix answers, just as quietly, "I'll take his place at midnight."

"Do we really think the Empire will follow us?" That's Ingrid. She stirs her own bowl of soup with a frown on her face. "It seems unlikely."

"Maybe," Sylvain murmurs, "But think about it: the crown prince _and_ the heirs to the most powerful territories in Faerghus? It would be risky to chase us, but they might consider us worth it."

He sips the soup. It's thin and underseasoned, but someone's stirred some potatoes and salt-preserved meat into it. He chews a bit of meat and stares across the fire at Dimitri. His hollow stare - even aimed at the fire - chills him to the bone.

"All we can do is stay vigilant," Felix says, "I need to rest now."

He stores his whetstone somewhere on his person and sheathes the sword. He doesn't step far away from the light of the fire before he curls up directly on the ground. It doesn't look comfortable. Then again, none of them had time to grab bedrolls or supplies when they left. They're stuck in their sweat-stiff clothes until they're out of Empire-contested territory.

Sylvain scrapes the last of his soup from his bowl and gives it back to Ashe. Wordlessly, he turns to help Ingrid with the buckles of her armor. She returns the favor without asking. He thinks about the bathhouse the night Miklan died. He takes her hand.

"Come on. It'll be warmer if we stay together."

Felix rolls his eyes at them when they come to lie beside him, but he doesn't complain. Ingrid lies in between them. Sylvain throws his arm across both of them and pillows his head in his other arm. He finally relaxes. This is right. Ingrid's body is warm against his, and he can just rest his hand on Felix's arm without straining. He falls into a heavy sleep within minutes and barely stirs when Dedue comes to wake Felix for his turn at watch.

The morning sunlight sheds uncomfortable light on their situation. 

Everyone is grey-faced with exhaustion. The ragtag bunch of townspeople, clerics, and knights following them need better food and accommodations than the meager supplies they have. They need a plan.

Everyone looks to Dimitri, whether they realize it or not. Dimitri himself is still distant. He seems to hardly notice them. Finally, he speaks.

"My uncle needs to know what happened."

They all look at him. It's Ingrid who asks, "We sent a messenger out before the battle, didn't we?"

"We did," Ashe confirms.

"He needs to know we lost," Dimitri says bleakly, "We need to prepare for war. If the Empress declared war on the Church, then she's coming for the Kingdom next. We must refortify the southern border and amass our troops."

"I'm sure your uncle's thought of that," Sylvain puts in.

"My father will support you," Felix says. He grimaces, but he meets Dimitri's eyes. "The only question is whether we should travel together to Fhirdiad or break away to our own territories to prepare."

"My father will be most worried about Sreng," Sylvain says, "He may send me north to keep suppression if he decides to aid the kingdom."

Dimitri looks around their group. Something softens in his eyes, though a cold flame still simmers underneath.

"You're all worried about your lands. I understand. Dedue and I will lead the refugees to Arianrhod. We'll make for the capital from there. Ashe, you should return to Lord Lonato's territory. You're his heir. His seneschal can help you." Ashe nods, looking pale but determined. He turns to his childhood companions. "You should each go back to your lands as well. Our war effort will depend on your fathers."

"Of course," Ingrid says.

"Yeah," Sylvain says lamely. He feels queasy.

Felix merely nods, his face unreadable.

"Annie and I will go with you to Fhirdiad," Mercedes says. She manages to look serene and stalwart, even with tangled hair and soot on her face. "Right, Annie?"

"Of course!"

Dimitri smiles, and for just a moment, the future doesn't seem too bleak.

Sylvain startles and looks at his hands. Ingrid's threaded their fingers together, and he can see that she's grasped Felix's hand as well. She doesn't look at either of them, eyes fixed on their prince, but he squeezes her fingers with a funny lump in his throat.

"Let's break camp and get moving," Felix says, "The Empire could be on us."

The mood crashes back down to reality. Ingrid slips her fingers loose from his. He turns and reaches on impulse. He pulls both Ingrid and Felix in for a hug. Neither protest. He kisses them each on the hair and lets go. He trots off to look at the horses before they can stop him and pin him in place with questions. He has a terrible feeling of dread.

\---

The next five years are a blur of atrocities.

He rallies troops in Gautier territory and supervises training and equipping them. He never thought he'd be grateful to the Professor for their lessons. It's a funny thought as he teaches his soldiers how to block axe counters to their lances and how to take down imperial spellcasters. Their theoretical strategy exercises are saving real men and women's lives now.

Still, the Kingdom falls apart year by year.

The stench of death never leaves his nose. Fraldarius and Gautier hold the defensive line against Cornelia and her Dukedom. Whenever that front calms, Sreng attacks. He's locked into endless campaigns, and he doesn't see victory in the end. The soldiers in his personal battalion die and are replaced. He watches teenagers pick up swords and march into battle, never to return. He wants to scream and scream and throw himself into the deep, dark sea. He wants it all to stop. He misses warm Fraldarius summers with sticky jam on his face, when swords were just play and the promise of a violent adulthood was still a distant nightmare.

Between battles is boredom and drudgery. The farms need guarding so there will be food for the winter. Communication lines have to be protected so that letters aren't intercepted. They wake up every day expecting the latest stalemate with the Empire and the Dukedom to erupt into war again. With his father occupied with Sreng and his mother managing the estate, the war effort falls to Sylvain and the Gautier generals. His fingers cramp from penning letters all night and swinging his lance all day. He's desperate, lonely, and exhausted.

He sees his friends infrequently. Ashe is occupied with holding his territory and trying to provide for his people. Annette and Mercedes travel from town to town to render aid and bolster spirits. Ingrid's letters indicate that she and her siblings are fighting hunger more than battles, with weak crops and few resources. He sends as much aid as he can spare to them. Felix's letters are infrequent. His father is by Dimitri's side, so he runs Fraldarius just as Sylvain runs Gautier. 

Infrequently, their paths will cross at the border of Gautier and Fraldarius. Dukedom insurgents launch several attacks over the years. Sylvain rides out to quell them. Sometimes he finds Felix.

Felix is thinner. The bags under his eyes are deeper. Beyond that, he's unchanged. He still clasps hands and hugs Sylvain firmly. He's still a demon on the battlefield, his sword more like lightning than steel.

He's still beautiful.

Sylvain is twenty-three, and he's in love.

The latest insurrection pushes into Gautier territory, threatening the wheat and rye crops and the sheep farms in the region. Fraldarius sends aid in the form of Felix and a battalion on swift horses. The attack is smothered out in a long battle that only ends when the sun begins to set. The two small armies retreat to wait for daylight. Sylvain returns to his camp to send for another battalion or two and count the losses.

He's back in his tent when Felix pushes his way past the flap. He's spattered in blood and empty-eyed. Sylvain sets his pen down.

"Felix," he says, "You injured?"

He waves a hand in dismissal and starts to strip his gloves off. Sylvain stands and peeks out of his tent to bark for his squire to bring a washtub. When he turns, Felix is working on his boots.

"Sorry," he says, "We didn't bring tents. Figured you'd put us up."

"It's no problem. You can share with me. They're bringing a tub now."

Felix nods and sets his boots and gloves aside. His light armor is bloody, but there's not a scratch on him. He feels an odd twist of pride. It's strange to admire how skillful a killer someone is, but it's strange times. His squire and some camp aids return with a short tub and buckets of water and towels. He dismisses them to fill the tub himself and heats the water with fire magic. When he stands up again, Felix is there in just his leather trousers. He averts his eyes from his pale skin.

"Tub's ready."

"Thanks." He clasps Sylvain's shoulder in passing. 

He sits back at his short writing desk. He can't concentrate on the reports. The rug thrown over the dirt of the tent floor does nothing to soften his seat. His thoughts obsessively chase the sound of Felix dipping a cloth into the water and dragging it over his skin.

"Do you think they'll attack again in the morning?"

He startles at the question. When he glances back, Felix isn't looking at him. He runs the cloth over the ropy muscles of his arms. He swallows and looks back at his papers.

"Probably. The farms here are valuable. It'll be a fool's mission if they don't get reinforcements, though. I have more knights on their way."

"So do I." Felix is silent, then. He hears him sluice some water over his hair. He closes his eyes. He can imagine how the wet tendrils cling to his neck and forehead.

"Do you remember the Fort?" He is surprised his mouth is moving. He opens his eyes and shuffles the papers in front of him. He keeps talking, "The one when we were kids? That Dimitri and Glenn built?"

There's a short, heavy pause at the mention of those names. He hears him towel off. 

"Of course I do."

"You remember the summers I spent there?"

"Before your father decided you were a man and kept you home?" Felix snorts. "Of course I remember. Why? Feeling nostalgic?"

"Maybe a little." That's not it. He's such a coward. He bites his lip. "Do you remember what we promised when we were kids?"

The movement behind him stops.

"When we talked about the Goddess," he babbles. The words won't stop, but they're all the wrong ones. "You might not remember. You were only six or so. But we talked about the Goddess, and Sedoretu, and we promised something. We promised-"

"I remember." When had Felix gotten so close? His voice is right over Sylvain's shoulder. "I promised to marry you."

He can't turn around. He can't meet Felix's eyes. He can't see the rejection coming. He clenches his fists.

"Were you serious back then?"

A pause. "Sylvain, I was six." 

Rejection. He hunches his shoulders. Strong hands grab them and spin him on his ass before he can catch himself. Felix towers over him. He's damp and wearing nothing but unbuttoned trousers and a towel around his shoulders. His face is a familiar scowl.

"I can't speak for a promise I made as a child," he growls, "Say what you really mean, Sylvain. Stop being a coward."

The urge to flee and laugh it off as a joke is strong, but Felix is stronger. He buckles under his glare. He's never been good at blunt honesty, but that's what he has Felix for. He's looking at Sylvain as if he's bracing for a blow. He can count dark scars on his skin. All the little brushes with death he's had out there. Alone. Without Sylvain.

"I love you," he says.

It's not what he meant to say. Felix's shoulders slump. He braces himself for something. He doesn't prepare for him to smile. It's a soft, tired smirk. He snorts again.

"Took you long enough."

He stands up to tower over Felix. Goddess, he's so small. He looks so soft with his damp hair around his shoulders. He doesn't back away when Sylvain leans into his space.

"What are you talking about?"

"You, moron." He smirks wider. "Ingrid said you were in love with me. I didn't believe her. I owe her ten gold now."

"You two conspired against me?" He's shocked. Perhaps he shouldn't be. The two of them had been tense at the Academy, but the grief of Glenn's loss had dulled over time. Both of the Fraldarius boys had been like brothers to her. He remembers how seamlessly the two of them had stepped in to care for him when Miklan died. His heart does that same strange lurch that it had the night that they'd all slept together in the forest outside of Garreg Mach. He returns to the present to see Felix frowning.

"Of course we did. You're useless without us. Now are you going to do something about it?"

He raises an eyebrow mockingly. It's all the prompting Sylvain needs to drag him closer and finally get his mouth on him. It's just as good as he dreamed it would be.

\---

Sylvain is twenty-four, and he's considering desertion.

Some days he doesn't know what they're fighting for anymore. Dimitri is dead. If they do somehow manage to defeat the Dukedom, the Empire is still breathing down their necks, and the Leicester Alliance is a wildcard. Victory isn't feasible. It feels more like picking a place to die.

His only joy is Felix. 

Their meetings are brief, as war allows. They make excuses to see each other. He worries incessantly, but war isn't safe and it isn't kind. They both come back with new scars. He doesn't see a way out. He remembers Shamir. Could they live like that? Hop a boat, flee Fodlan, leave it to whatever fate awaits it?

Felix would never agree. As dour as he is, he's a loyal knight of Faerghus. Ingrid wouldn't leave either, and he can't stomach thinking about Ashe or Annette or Mercedes dying while he abandoned them. So he's trapped in a losing war, and he's losing hope.

Felix wants to send more aid to Galatea. They leave their generals in charge of the war, and they guard the caravan. To an outsider, it's excessive for the heirs to the two staunch Blaiddyd Loyalist houses to go on a simple aid mission. They don't care. He's happy just riding by Felix's side.

He hasn't seen Ingrid in a year. She greets them at the border of Galatea. Her pegasus is blindingly white and glorious when she lands at the head of their caravan. He can't stop himself from whooping and throwing himself off his horse to greet her. She dismounts and laughs when he grabs her and spins her around in the air before crushing her against his armor. She's light in his arms even in her chainmail. 

"It's so good to see you," she says. She's lost the rosy glow and plumpness she'd gained at seventeen, but she's lovely, still. He reaches up to touch her hair. It's cropped short, but just as soft in his fingers. She leans into the touch. "I missed you both so much."

She pulls away from him. He misses her immediately. He looks guiltily at Felix, but he's the one being crushed in a hug now, and he doesn't look displeased. He feels so calm with both of them beside him. He claps his hands together.

"Let's deliver this food! People are hungry!"

Ingrid lights up. She grabs her pegasus's lead and walks beside Felix. They begin talking about the seedlings Felix brought, diverting into a discussion of crop techniques. Sylvain mounts his horse and trots ahead. War or no war, it's a beautiful day.

It's Ingrid who broaches the idea.

"It's been five years," she says over dinner. It's simple fare, but they're used to it. The Galatea lords don't dine luxuriously while their people starve. "We should go back."

"Back where and for what?" Felix is blunt as always. He barely glances up from his bread.

Sylvain already knows where this is going. "Are you talking about the millennium festival?"

Lord Galatea frowns. He looks even thinner and careworn after years of war. "What do you mean? The Monastery is abandoned. There is no festival."

"We made a promise," Ingrid says, ignoring her father.

"To a dead professor and a dead king," Felix scoffs.

"A promise is a promise," she protests, "I think we should go. At least for a day. For Dima's sake."

"It's risky," Sylvain says, "The Empire controls all of the territory in the area. We couldn't go with more than a single battalion each."

"You're not seriously considering it," Felix groans. He sounds resigned. "You're both romantic fools."

"You're planning on going back to Garreg Mach?" Lord Galatea looks alarmed. "You can't. Why would you even think to go?"

"We promised to go back. I think the others will remember, too." Ingrid's tone books no argument. "Are you two coming or not?"

Sylvain looks at Felix, who sighs.

"You're going to go no matter what I say. I guess I'll go to stop you idiots from getting yourselves killed."

That's as much of a yes as they're getting. Sylvain squeezes his leg under the table. Ingrid grin is satisfied.

"It's settled. We're going back to Garreg Mach."

\---

Sylvain is twenty-five, and he's conflicted.

The war effort is bolstered by the miraculous return of the Professor and Dimitri. Garreg Mach is alive again with soldiers and traders and craftsmen. There's a new feeling of hope in the air even as everyone shuffles around warily avoiding their feral prince.

Sylvain wishes he could focus. His thoughts are a whirl. He's still corresponding with Gautier and trying to keep his father appraised of their situation. He's training his magic to become a dark knight. He misses Felix, because Felix is torn between training and helping the Professor manage Dimitri. He spends a lot of his free time helping Annette in the garden. He says her singing is soothing.

He's not worried about it, of course. He's glad Felix has other Morning friends. What he's worried about is Ingrid. Or, namely, how he feels about her.

He loves Felix. He's going to marry him once the war's over. But he's drawn to Ingrid, too. He watches her training and relaxing with Mercedes and tending the stables, and he feels something. Something like what he feels for Felix. He doesn't know what to do. It feels like a betrayal to what he and Felix have together. Like Felix somehow isn't enough, which couldn't be further than the truth. He doesn't know what to do. How can he bring it up?

It's Mercedes who finds him agonizing over some rubble one day. She walks by, humming loudly so as not to startle him. He shades his eyes to look up at her. She smiles.

"Good afternoon, Sylvain," she says. She's cut her hair, too. She looks nice. He nods at her. "Do you need help with that?"

He smirks ruefully at the rubble he's trying to rebuild. "I'm not much of a stonemason. I don't think even your help would fix this."

Mercedes laughs. "I'm not much of a stonemason, either. Would you like to take a break? I have sandwiches and wine."

"Might as well. Thanks, Mercie."

He dusts his hands off and joins her in sitting on the sun-warm pavement. He takes a sandwich. Mercedes takes a sip of wine and passes the skin to him. It's watered down. He returns it to her basket. He chews his sandwich. It's good. Food always tastes better when Mercedes makes it.

"What are your intentions with Ingrid?"

He chokes. Mercedes patiently passes him the wineskin again and hits him on the back until he stops hacking.

"My what?"

"You heard me." Her smile is just as pleasant as ever, but he knows she's got more depth than what she's letting show. "I've seen you watching her. I just wanted to know why."

"What's it to you?"

"Oh, nothing." She hums and takes a bite of her food. When she swallows, she continues, "I know you're in a relationship with Felix. Are you trying to make Sedoretu?"

Is he? He sweats under her smile. "Sedoretu isn't really done in the nobility of Faerghus."

"Neither is two men marrying," she counters. "I think it's admirable that you're trying to marry for love rather than Crests. If more nobles stood up for what they believed, rather than what they were taught to believe, I think the world would be a much happier place, don't you?"

"Yeah," he says weakly. "Are you and Annette trying to make Sedoretu, too?"

Mercedes laughs, then, a deep laugh from her belly. "Me and Annie? Oh, no, you're mistaken. I love her dearly, but we're just friends."

"Oh. I thought, with you being Evening, and her Morning…"

"Don't be reductive, Sylvain," she says pleasantly. "You can be just friends with opposite moieties."

"You're right. Sorry."

"I think it would be lovely to make Sedoretu one day," she admits, "But I was asking about Ingrid. What are your intentions with her?"

He takes the time to think of an honest answer. Something about Mercedes made him want to be truthful. What did he want? He hadn't seriously thought about making Sedoretu since he was a kid. Then the war happened, and he got Felix. Now…

"I think I love her," he says, "I don't know about Sedoretu, but I think I want her in my life. I want her in Felix's life. Is that selfish?"

"I think you should talk to Felix and Ingrid," she says. She lay her hand over his. "It's a decision you're all involved in. You have to communicate. No one will just guess what you want."

"You're right. Wow, you're right." He starts to stand up. "I should go."

"Finish your lunch first," she says. She's laughing at him. "Before you go embarrass Felix in front of the knights."

He sits back down and finishes his lunch obediently. He doesn't end up talking to Felix until the evening.

"Hey, Fee?"

Felix hums affirmative. He's dressed down and gorgeous in just his pants and one of Sylvain's loose shirts. He looks up from his book of tactics. There's hair escaping from his tie and he looks so beautiful and tempting that Sylvain almost abandons his mission to pin him down on the bed instead. He shakes his head to clear it and sets that thought aside for later.

"You, um, remember us talking about Sedoretu?"

"When we were children, yes." He closes his book and turns his full attention to Sylvain. "Are you thinking about it again?"

"Maybe a little," he hedges, "I was wondering how you felt about it."

"In theory? It's a romantic notion. The stuff of those ridiculous books Ingrid and Ashe read." He makes a face. It's gone as fast as it came. "In practice, I think it would require the right people. I'm not opposed to the concept."

"Oh. Good." He rubs his neck awkwardly and looks at the ceiling. He can feel Felix's raised eyebrow without looking at him. "If I told you that I might be interested in a Morning woman, would you be upset?"

"That depends." When he glances at him again, Felix is frozen and blank like a stone. "Who?"

He wilts. He can't look at Felix. "I might… be interested in Ingrid."

He says it in a rush. He stares at the floor. He hears Felix sigh.

"Oh," he says. He sounds relieved. "That's all."

Sylvain's head shoots up. Felix is animated again, relaxing and beginning to smile.

"I was afraid you would say you found some conquest in town," he says. He pats the bed beside him and Sylvain walks over woodenly to collapse beside him. "I was going to be very upset if you wanted me to share you with some barmaid."

"So you're… not upset about Ingrid?"

Felix scoffs. "You worry about the weirdest things. If you worried about your training half as much, you wouldn't get unhorsed so easily." He sees Sylvain frowning and matches him frown for frown. "Look, if you're looking for a heartfelt talk about making Sedoretu with you, you should talk to Ingrid. I'm just glad it's her. If I have to have a moiety wife, I'd prefer it to be her. Anyone else would be annoying."

Despite his dismissive words, the tips of his ears are pink. He has a little satisfied smile on his face. Sylvain leans in to kiss it.

"Thank you," he breathes. 

"Don't thank me until you talk to Ingrid," he says. He pushes him away firmly. "She might still dump you when she finds out how loud you snore."

Sylvain pushes him back playfully and steals another kiss. He stands up to rush out of the bedroom. He hears Felix mutter something and pick his book back up. He doesn't stop to listen. Ingrid's room is dark. He takes the stairs down. People are in the courtyard, but none of them are Ingrid. He keeps walking. He finds her scattering food in the fish pond. The rest of the dock is deserted. She looks up at his approach, glowing in the last rays of the setting sun.

"Hey, Sylvain," she says, "I forgot to do this earlier. Did you need something?"

"Yes, actually," he says. He feels breathless. "Will you walk with me?"

"Sure." She sets the bucket aside and steps off the dock. It feels strange to let her fall into step beside him when all he wants is to pull her into his arms. "Where should we walk?"

"How about the old classrooms? The courtyard is nice." Also probably deserted. 

"You did spend a lot of time there as a student." Ingrid's smile is fond. "The Professor was always looking for you there on free days with some strange present they found."

"Or dragging us off for tea parties," he agrees. 

"So many tea parties."

They laugh. It's nice. The moon hasn't risen yet. The courtyard is dark except for some torches. They come to a halt in the grass.

"Remember when the professor had Mercedes practicing dancing out here? She won the Heron Cup, remember?"

"She was great," he agrees half-heartedly. "Um, I actually had a question for you, Ingrid. An important one."

She looks at him fully, then. She looks worried. "Is something wrong?"

"No, nothing like that. I just wondered…" Now or never. "Have you ever thought about making Sedoretu?"

Her expression shutters. She looks away.

"Of course I have," she snaps, "Everyone does. That's a cruel question. You know quite well about my family's situation. It's never going to happen."

He messed up. He tries to backpedal.

"I know your dad wants you to marry rich, but if you could make Sedoretu, would you?"

"How could I?" She's so bitter. "I was raised to marry a wealthy man and save my land from starvation."

"I'm a wealthy man," he blurts. She stiffens even more beside him. He hastily continues, "So is Felix. If you marry both of us, your dad can't complain, can he?"

Ingrid whirls on him with fire in her eyes. He takes a step back.

"Are you offering me a marriage of _pity_? To make my _father_ happy? Is that how low you are? Does Felix know you're doing this?"

"What? Goddess damn it, Ingrid," he snaps, defensive, "You think I'd do that? I'm trying to tell you I love you!"

She freezes, eyes wide.

"I love you," he says again, more firmly, "And yes, Felix knows. He told me to talk to you. We want to make Sedoretu with you."

Her lip trembles. He steps closer to offer her comfort and is rewarded with a punch to the shoulder.

"You - You jerk!" There are tears in her eyes, and her shoulders shake. She laughs, and the tears spill over. "You made me think you were mocking me!"

"You were the one who jumped to conclusions!"

She steps away and covers her face with her hands. He can't tell if she's crying or laughing. "I'm such a fool. I must look like an idiot."

"Only a little," he teases, "But I think you look beautiful. Even with snot on your face. You're gorgeous, snot-girl."

"You're terrible." She punches him again.

"You still haven't given me an answer."

She twists her hands together. Even in the bad torchlight, he can tell she's blushing. She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear nervously.

"I don't know what to say," she admits, "I don't know if I can just agree to making Sedoretu just like that."

"Don't worry about that part, then," he says, "Maybe it won't happen anyway. We could all die in battle tomorrow before we make a full set. Maybe we'll die of old age without ever getting married. Right now, though, I just want you both by my side. I love you both more than I've ever loved anyone else."

Ingrid sniffles and finally looks at him in the eye. She's so beautiful, snot included. "I love you, too, Sylvain. I couldn't say it before. I thought you and Felix were happy with just the two of you. I didn't want to intrude on that."

He pulls her in for a hug and kisses her forehead. She fits in his arms like she was made to be there.

"Felix actually said he likes you," he says. She giggles. "He admitted to having a _feeling_ , Ingrid. We've gotta make this work. For his sake."

"For Felix's sake," she agrees. Her eyes sparkle with mischief. "He might never admit to having feelings again if we don't."

"Exactly. You get it." 

He pulls her in for a proper kiss. Her lips are softer than Felix's chapped ones. They pull away far too soon. He sighs.

"We should go to bed," he says.

She blushes again. "Um, isn't that a little fast?"

He's confused, and then it clicks. He laughs and hugs her again. "I meant to sleep, you pervert. Are you trying for my virtue already?"

She punches him again. "What virtue?"

He grabs her fist and leads her to the dorms. "I'm just teasing you. We can take our time. Nobody's rushing."

"Right." She holds his hand the entire way to the dorms.

Felix's door opens when they walk down the hall. He smirks at them with all the satisfaction of a tomcat in a patch of sunlight.

"Took you long enough."

He lets Ingrid hug him. Sylvain grins.

"Sleepover in Felix's room!"

"What? No, the bed's too small. Sylvain!"

He uses his height advantage to bully them into the room. With practiced ease, he hooks his foot on the door and kicks it shut behind them. They all tumble onto the (admittedly too-small) mattress in a messy heap.

"You smell like fish," Felix complains. Ingrid gasps.

"And your room smells like an armory, but you don't hear me complaining!"

"You're complaining right now. Sylvain, get off, you're heavy."

He rolls over and works on his boot laces. Ingrid gets up and pulls away from him when he reaches for her.

"I'll be right back. I'm not sleeping in my work clothes." Her expression softens when she looks at them. "Really. Three minutes. Right back."

True to her word, she returns in a long night shift. Felix grumbles again about the space. Sylvain doesn't care. He ends up on his back with Ingrid draped over one arm and Felix over the other. It's a tight squeeze, and Felix is in danger of rolling off the bed, but he's never been happier. He snuggles them closer. Things are starting to look up.

\---

Felix is twenty-three, and his father is dead.

The army is trapped in a sort of shocked silence after Gronder Field. Nobody dares speak to Dimitri or his inner circle. Definitely nobody dares speak to Felix, who carries his shock and grief close to his chest.

Sylvain desperately wants to help, but Felix grieves in such an aggressively solitary way. He pushes Sylvain away, ignores Ingrid. He basically disappears for a few days, reappearing at odd hours to grab enough food to keep his body running and holing back up in the training hall.

He doesn't know what to do. He's never felt so useless before.

He's almost insulted when it's Ingrid who finally cracks his shell one evening. He just catches them disappearing into Ingrid's room. He hears raised voices from the hall. Finally, when he strains to listen, he hears sobbing. He turns and walks away.

His feet take him to the chapel. He thinks about praying. He sees Dimitri kneeling before the rubble. He walks out to a balcony instead. He watches the pegasi and wyverns fly overhead.

He shouldn't be surprised when Mercedes appears at his side. It seems like she's always there when he needs her. She leans against the wall with him, and they watch the soldiers fly by. 

"Are you okay?"

Mercedes looks startled by the question. She schools her features back into a pleasant smile.

"Me? I'm fine."

"You just seem to spend a lot of time here," he says.

"I like to pray," she says, "There's a lot to pray about, especially now."

"I've never really seen the appeal," he answers honestly.

"I suppose it's not for everyone." Mercedes's smile is as gentle and kind as ever. "How is Felix?"

"Fine. I mean, he's obviously not fine, but you know." He sighs and slumps onto his elbows. "Ingrid talked to him. I mean, it's better that he's not just pretending everything is fine, right? So that's where they are. Talking and stuff."

"And what about you?"

"I just feel like I'm in the way." He chews his lip. "They both have parents that they love. I don't really have that. If my dad died tomorrow, I wouldn't really be sad about it. So I'm sad about Rodrique, but I can't really do anything."

"What can you do except be present for him? Just stay by his side. I think that's what's important for him."

"And what about you?" 

"Me?"

"What do you want?"

Something sad and resigned flashes across Mercedes's face. "What I want? That's never been important, I'm afraid."

"It should be." He stands up straighter and turns the full force of his grin on Mercedes. A gust of wind whips through their hair, sending her veil flying up like a halo around her head. "How about you promise me something? Promise me that after the war's all over, you figure out what it is you want, and then you do that. You decide to be happy."

"Why? What do you get out of a promise like that?"

"Nothing!" He grins harder, forcibly bright. "I get nothing, but you get everything. What's the point of all this if we don't get to be happy in the end? So promise me. Promise me that after the war's over, you make sure you end up happy, too?"

Mercedes laughs. It brings little tears to her eyes. Sylvain's laughing, too, and before he knows it there's tears in his eyes. They must look half-mad standing by the ledge, laughing and crying as if there's no tomorrow. There might not be, after all.

"Fine," Mercedes finally gasps, "I promise. After the war, I'll go after what I want. We'll still be friends then, right?"

"Of course. I won't leave you behind."

She stays at the cathedral to pray. He makes his long way back to the dorms. Ingrid's room is quiet now. He slips inside. They're both asleep. Tired out from crying, probably. He sits on the floor beside the bed. 

He doesn't know how the war is going to go. Dimitri could lead them all into certain death. He just knows that he would die if it would keep these two alive. Over his dead body, he would make sure of it.

\---

Sylvain is twenty-eight, and the war is over.

It's been over, but it's finally starting to feel real. The Leicester Alliance is starting to re-assimilate into the Kingdom. Fighting in the Empire is dying down. Restoration is in progress everywhere. King Dimitri and Archbishop Byleth maintain the peace. The new Almyran king makes inroads to new trade agreements and diplomacy. Even Sreng is slower to attack.

Margrave Gautier dies in the last year of the war. His widow rules Gautier lands while the new Margrave focuses his efforts at the capital and in the former Empire territories. The new Duke of Fraldarius also leaves the ruling of his lands to his uncle while he helps reestablish peace. Quietly, in a small ceremony, Sylvain, Ingrid, and Felix get married.

Nobility attempting Sedoretu throws the Kingdom even more into uproar, but it's hard for Sylvain to care. 

He doesn't care about much, really. It's a gorgeous spring day, and he's helping sow the fields of Galatea with their new, successful crops. Dedue and Ashe's crossbreeding combined with revolutionized farming practices is working to bring Galatea's yield up tenfold. As lords of the land, they don't necessarily need to toil the fields with the peasants, but Ingrid likes to see to the work personally. For Sylvain, well, it feels good to help create things with the same hands that killed hundreds. Perhaps it doesn't balance the scales. He doesn't mind either way.

He leans against a cart and watches his wife and his husband. Ingrid is as lovely as ever. She's plumper now, not as gaunt as during the war. Still muscular and strong. She barks orders and checks logs religiously, but no one really minds. Her joy at watching the fields become full of vegetables and grains is infectious. The people are no longer hungry and suffering. 

Felix is practically useless without a sword in hand. He wields a trowel as if it's a weapon, and an unfamiliar one at that. His discomfort is palpable. Still, he tries his hand at farming for Ingrid's sake. As the fighting dies down, so do his hard edges. He wonders if one day he'll set down his sword and never pick it up again.

"Sylvain!" Speaking of Ingrid, her voice cuts through his daydreaming. He jumps to attention like a soldier. "Are you just going to stand there? This pegasus manure won't shovel itself!"

"Yes, dear," he calls. He sighs and pops his back. He's distracted by the caravan he's been watching approach. It's flying the flag of the church, but war bred an inherent distrust in him. He steps closer to the road. The driver of the first wagon waves to him. He waves back with a hand on his dirk. A blond head pops up from the interior to sit beside the driver.

"Mercedes?"

She grins at him. "Sylvain! What a pleasant surprise!"

At the sound of her voice, Ingrid and Felix both lift their heads. Ingrid comes running up to the road. Felix follows at a more casual jog.

"And Ingrid and Felix! I didn't expect to see you all here!"

Sylvain helps her down from the wagon. She hugs him tightly and lets go to collide with Ingrid. The two women nearly topple over, laughing. Felix comes behind to accept his hug, as well. 

"What are you doing all the way out here? I thought you were still at the capital," Ingrid says.

"I was, but I decided it was time for me to move on," she says. She glances at Sylvain and turns back to Ingrid. "You see, I promised someone that when the war ended, I would try to do something that makes me happy, so here I am. I told my adoptive father to go hang. No Crest marriage for me."

They all laugh at that, startled by her audacity. 

"We should go back to my family's manor and get you settled," Ingrid says.

"Oh no, you look busy. If it's alright with you, I'd like to help. The people I'm traveling with are craftsmen and clerics looking for work, so they were only heading to the city, anyway."

"But you're a guest…"

"If you want to help," Felix cuts in, "You can come help me with these seedlings. I still can't tell them apart."

She stops to take her luggage from the driver and bids her traveling companions goodbye. Then she joyously rolls her sleeves up and kneels directly in the dirt with Felix. Ingrid goes back to her managing while throwing happy glances at their friend. Sylvain is still on manure duty.

He glances at his husband and Mercedes while he works. He'd never really spent time watching just the two of them before. Felix is so gentle around her. Some of his hypervigilance melts away. She says something and he blushes. Her laughter rings through the field.

They go back to the manor and clean up. Mercedes joins them in the dining room. She takes a seat beside Ingrid. Oddly, the talk flows just as easily around her as it does when it's just the three of them. It's seamless. Sylvain sips his wine and he watches.

One day becomes another and another, and somehow the spring planting season is over and they're riding back to Fraldarius, and Mercedes is still with them. The spring is melting into a gauzy, dreamy summer heat. Sylvain feels younger and lighter than he has in years.

Felix's uncle greets them at the door, and Felix disappears for a few hours to catch up on important Duke business. Sylvain and Ingrid show Mercedes around the keep. They resolve to have a picnic the next day. Felix returns, and Ingrid disappears with him. Sylvain is left alone to play chess with Mercedes.

"Those two are acting secretive," he comments.

"Are you worried?" 

"No. If it was something terrible, I'd know it. You don't think it's a birthday surprise party, do you? I hate those."

Mercedes laughs. "I've never had one, but they sound awkward. It's probably not that."

"Probably not." He moves a bishop. He watches Mercedes chew her lip in thought. "How's that promise of yours holding up, by the way?"

She continues to study the board. "The promise? Oh, yes, I think I'm doing alright with it. These past weeks visiting you three has made me quite happy."

"It's hard to believe it's been weeks already. It seems shorter."

"That's always the way, isn't it? Miserable times drag on, but happy days go by in a flash."

"That's true." She finally moves a pawn. He studies his own pieces. "It has been nice, though. It reminds me of when I was a kid and visited Felix and Glenn. I never wanted those summers to end, either."

She hums. He moves a knight. The thread of the conversation is dropped. 

By the next morning, he's almost forgotten it. They drag a big basket out into the yard near the stables. Ingrid and Mercedes are beautiful in soft summer dresses. Felix helps him carry the basket and blankets out into the copse of trees there. He wonders.

"Do you think the Fort is still there?"

Ingrid's eyes light up. "I don't know. Felix? Is it still there?"

He shrugs. "Probably? I haven't looked for it."

"Let's go see!" She grabs Mercedes's hand and the two women disappear into the trees. He hears Felix sigh. They lug the heavy basket in and follow the giggling until the copse opens up to the Fort in all of its dessicated glory.

"It looks terrible," he says.

"What did you expect?"

"It was so great when we were little," Ingrid is saying to Mercedes. "We used to play all kinds of games here. Loog, the Ten Elites, knights and princesses. It was magical."

"You did a good job for such young children," Mercedes says diplomatically, "Oh, you two, set that down. It's so heavy. Let's set everything up."

It's a lovely breakfast picnic. The heavy part was the actual pot of tea Ingrid packed, and the tin army cups. Once everything's set out and Sylvain and Felix rest their arms, it's even nice. Not hot enough to be bothersome yet. He takes a bite of a sticky jam tart.

"Sylvain, can I ask you something?"

He raises a brow at Ingrid. She looks nervous. Felix does, too.

"Actually, it's Felix and I both asking, and the question's for both of you." She smooths her hands over her skirt. Felix puts his hand on her knee. "We've brought it up before. Sedoretu."

He swallows his tart and nods. Mercedes is tense by his side.

"We were thinking… well, we're hoping…"

"We want Mercedes to be our Evening wife," Felix cuts in.

It should be a surprise, but somehow, Sylvain doesn't feel shocked at all. He looks at Mercedes. She looks frozen.

"If you want to only, of course," Ingrid hastens to say, "And only if Sylvain wants to. That's why we asked you both at once. Just so we all can decide."

Sylvain sets his tart down and leans back. He can't suppress a smug grin.

"I knew it. That's what you two were plotting last night."

They merely nod. He laughs.

"I'm more than happy with it. This is great. Wow."

"Mercedes?" Felix is staring at her.

Sylvain turns to look. Mercedes is crying. She doesn't look sad, but her face is screwed up and red and she's sniffling. He frantically reaches for a handkerchief, but Ingrid is faster. She gently blots her face.

"Mercie? Are you okay? You don't have to say yes if you don't want to. We'll understand."

"It's not that." She takes the handkerchief from Ingrid and blows her nose into it. She laughs. "I'm sorry. Sorry. I'm acting like a big baby. I just can't believe you asked me that. I can't-"

She hiccups and sob-laughs again. Felix moves closer to put his hand on her shoulder. He looks worried that she's about to break.

"I'm sorry," Ingrid says.

"No, don't be! I'm just so happy!" Mercedes throws herself forward into Ingrid and Felix's arms. "Yes! Yes I will make Sedoretu! I will be your wife! A thousand times, yes!"

She's sobbing, and now Ingrid is crying. Felix looks uncomfortable with the amount of tears soaking his shirt. Sylvain laughs and grabs all three of them in a big bear hug and squeezes. His own eyes are wet. He just laughs harder.

"I love you all so much," Mercedes sobs.

"We love you, too," Ingrid wails.

"We all love each other, yes," Felix says, "Can we all stop crying now?"

He's so uncomfortable. Sylvain laughs harder and drags them down into the grass. The sun is blinding. The sobs have become laughter. They roll onto their backs to stare up into the sky until they catch their breath. 

"Does this mean we have to have another wedding?"

"Felix!"

"What? It's a legitimate question."

"We don't have to."

"Nonsense, we're going to." Sylvain grins into the sky. "We're going to have the biggest, best wedding ever, and we're getting the Archbishop to officiate. Eat your heart out, Faerghus."

"The old nobles are going to hate it."

"That's why we have to do it."

Ingrid rolls over and kisses Mercedes. Then she rolls again to kiss Sylvain and peck Felix on the cheek. Not to be left out, Sylvain retaliates with a kiss for her and one for Felix. He's gentle when he kisses Mercedes's cheek.

"So how's that promise? Did you get what you wanted?" 

Her smile is wide and tearless now. "I think I did. I'm so happy that I can't describe it."

"I am, too," he says.

If someone had told him back during the war that he'd be eating squished tarts and plucking grass out of the hair of his husband and his wives, he wouldn't have believed them. 

Now, against all odds, Sylvain is happy.


End file.
